


Put A Ring On It

by jadztone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Demisexual Sherlock, Fake Marriage, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, but not the fake relationship trope, moodboard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 14:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15220775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/pseuds/jadztone
Summary: Sherlock Holmes thought wearing a wedding ring to ward off unwanted attention was a brilliant idea.  He hadn’t counted on all the lies he would have to tell to keep up the charade.  He pretended his husband was his old friend Victor, then metaphorically packed him off to Iraq to explain his absence.  Sherlock only began to regret his fake marriage when very attractive John Watson became his flatmate.  John wasn’t thrilled with it either, appalled by his growing feelings for a married man.  The truth is revealed in the worst possible way when Victor unexpectedly comes back to town.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This came about from a fic prompt on alexxphoenix42’s tumblr page. I immediately wrote a more detailed version of the prompt for anyone that wanted to use it. I ended up using it myself. [LINK to prompt](https://sherlock-nanowrimo.tumblr.com/post/173326785878/ive-started-wearing-a-wedding-ring-to-stop).
> 
> Please see end note about Sherlock’s sexuality and any possible misconceptions.

It all started when Sherlock was out having lunch with his insufferable brother.  Their server had been flirting with Mycroft for most of the meal.  His older brother was quite surprised by this, given that most of the time wait staff were fixated on Sherlock.  He rolled his eyes and took great delight in informing Mycroft that she had a thing for gingers in suits.  “Really, brother mine, your powers of deduction are slipping.”

Mycroft blushed.  “I’m not used to being noticed.”  He rested his hand on the table and tapped it, thoughtfully.  When the server came back, her eyes drifted to his hand, and the plain gold band on his third finger.  She turned red, and mumbled out the dessert specials.  To Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft declined and she presented the cheque before scurrying away.

Sherlock stared at his brother with raised eyebrows.  “She stopped flirting when she saw the ring.  It’s not even on your left hand.”

Mycroft chuckled.  “It will probably dawn on her later.  A purely Pavlovian response.  Most men don’t wear a plain band unless it is a wedding ring. So they only notice the ring, not which hand it’s on.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.  “Is that why you wear it?  So no one will ask you out?”

Mycroft widened his eyes admonishingly.  “You know why I wear it.  Being left alone is just a bonus.”

*

Sherlock found himself thinking about it later when he was sprawled across the sofa.  He was feeling thoroughly stroppy over the fact that Lestrade hadn’t called him in on the latest string of murders.  A serial killer!  Sherlock could be solving it right at this moment.  Instead, he was languishing at Baker Street just because he’d put Gavin in his place.

Sherlock did feel a tiny bit of remorse for his outburst.  He’d been interviewing a witness who seemed more interested in propositioning him than giving him the information he needed.  He’d stalked off in frustration, and Lestrade followed him to try and calm him down.  “You can’t really blame him, Sherlock.  You’re so ridiculously good looking.  People can’t think straight around you.”  Then he winked at him.  Sherlock rounded on him and began berating him, reminding him that he was a married man.  Lestrade’s easy manner melted away and he’d become coldly professional. 

Two weeks since the incident, and Lestrade hadn’t called him for any cases.  Sherlock thought at first it was because the Yard was having a dry spell.  Then the murders started happening.  And Sherlock was stuck here, experiencing the most painful of consequences for his usually tried and true method of fending off the seemingly endless number of people who wanted to get into his trousers.

Ever since he finished puberty and the ugly duckling had turned into a swan (in the snide words of his brother), he’d started getting more and more people flirting with him, asking him out on dates.  It was confusing, since prior to acquiring these apparent good looks, most kids called him a freak and shunned him.  Perhaps their brains became addled from all the hormones. 

As time went on, he’d become increasingly frustrated by the advances.  He wasn’t interested and it was annoying to have to politely turn them down and then endure their confusion, sadness, and sometimes anger.  They couldn’t understand why he was rejecting them.  Especially the more popular classmates who were used to getting what they wanted.  It didn’t work trying to explain that he was asexual and aromantic.  They couldn’t understand the concept of not feeling attraction.

Mycroft disagreed with his self-assessment.  He said that Sherlock was demisexual and demiromantic, he just hadn’t met anyone that triggered those feelings.  Sherlock asked Mycroft how he could be so sure that he would ever have any interest in falling in love.  Mycroft had given him a strangely fond smile and said, “Because you wanted to be a pirate.”  Sherlock never understood that particular deduction.

Even in the off-chance that Mycroft was right, the odds of Sherlock ever meeting someone who wasn’t a complete idiot and could hold his interest for longer than 2 seconds ~~and could put up with Sherlock’s eccentricities~~ were vanishingly small.  Regardless, the result was the same – any and all advances were decidedly unwelcome. 

He eventually came upon a solution to his problem.  Whenever anyone flirted, he deduced them in the most unflattering light possible.  They would tell him to piss off and then never bother him again.  It served him well throughout secondary school and university.  He didn’t care if people hated him, it left him more time for his experiments. 

The only person he’d tolerated was Victor Trevor, and that was only because he didn’t seem interested in Sherlock sexually, but seemed to like spending time with him anyway.  After a few weeks of Victor’s smiling, patient company, Sherlock had felt the slightest stirrings of…something.  It never grew into anything more, but it did make Sherlock suspect that he was gay.  Still not interested in sex, or romance, but clearly he found men more…interesting.  Sherlock enjoyed his friendship with Victor, until the older boy graduated and went off to America. 

Sherlock’s policy of ruthlessly shutting down amorous behavior continued to be an easy remedy until he’d started his consulting detective business.  For the first time he was in a situation where he wanted something from people – casework – and his brusque manner was getting in the way.  Half the clients who came to his door ended up stomping off in anger.  When Philip Anderson asked him out, he made deductions about Anderson’s kinks that enraged the man so thoroughly that henceforth he refused to cooperate with Sherlock at every crime scene.  Ditto Sally Donovan, who witnessed their exchange and resented Sherlock for the fact that Anderson had asked him out instead of her.  It was hateful to have to put up with them, but Sherlock had to if he wanted to continue doing this job that he dearly loved.

So far he hadn’t run into this trouble with Molly Hooper, but that was only because she never overtly flirted with him.  She was too shy, so she made due with soppy glances.  He was relieved that he didn’t have to use his brutal tactics against her. He very much enjoyed the fact that she let him occasionally take home body parts from the morgue.  It was only a matter of time, though.  The other day she suggested they get coffee, and he’d pretended that he thought she was offering to fetch him coffee.  He made some comments about her lipstick, and it seemed to get her to back off.  For now. 

Sherlock was coming to the conclusion that he could no longer employ his usual methods.  He had to come up with some other way of getting people to back the hell off without making them hate him, and the incident at lunch today made him realize the perfect solution. 

The next day, he swanned off to the nearest jewelry store and bought a ring.  When Lestrade got over his pride and let Sherlock solve the serial murders, he’d oh-so-casually waved his hand around the body.  It was conveniently a clear day, so the sun glinted off the polished gold.  Sally was the first to ask, and Sherlock nonchalantly informed the crime scene at large that he and his long-term boyfriend finally decided to tie the knot and they’d eloped to Scotland.  Anderson had been furious, asking him why he’d never mentioned a boyfriend before, and he wouldn’t have asked him out if he’d known he was taken.  Sherlock coolly informed him that his private life was none of their business. 

The ring worked like a charm.  Fewer clients flirted with him, witnesses were more cooperative, Molly was mortified but resigned.  It didn’t work 100% of the time – there were always people who didn’t seem to care about one’s marital status.  He just pretended to be confused by their shocking behavior, and it had the same effect.

Of course, there was a downside.  People tended to ask tiresome questions about his husband.  He tried as long as he could to fend off the curiosity, but finally one day he broke and gave them a few details.  Sherlock told them his name was Victor, and shared what he could remember about his old friend – lies sounded much better if there was a little truth to them.  Since he’d told people he met his husband in uni, it seemed natural to make Victor be the poor sod stuck with him.

But that didn’t seem to be enough.  Sally asked why he didn’t have any pictures of Victor on his phone.  Clients would look around the flat and express surprise that a married couple lived there.  Sherlock remembered that Victor used to be quite the picture taker at school, so he e-mailed him asking him to forward some he took of them together.  When Victor asked why he was becoming sentimental all of a sudden, Sherlock asserted it was to settle a bet with someone who didn’t think he ever had friends. 

Sherlock was pleased with the pictures he sent.  He found himself feeling uncomfortably nostalgic looking at them.  He seemed so much more relaxed during that period of his life.  They were both laughing and smiling a lot.  Sherlock printed out a few and put them in frames.  He placed them strategically around the sitting room, including one right next to his client chair. 

He worried that people would get suspicious that all the pics were from uni days, so he hacked into Victor’s social media (his password was the name of his dog - obvious) and copied several more recent pics of Victor.  One in particular he thought would be useful.  Victor had taken a selfie lying down, his shirt artfully hiked up to reveal a sliver of his chiseled abdomen.  Sherlock rolled his eyes when he saw it - Victor clearly was on the pull - but it suited his purposes.  He made the picture his mobile lock screen.  When Sally saw it, she looked quite envious. 

Unfortunately, the pictures only made people even more curious about Victor, and Lestrade kept making comments about the two of them joining everyone at the pub, or the Christmas party, etc.  Sherlock knew he had to up the ante when Lestrade jokingly wondered if Victor even existed.  Earlier that day, Sherlock had interviewed a client whose husband was a navy lieutenant currently somewhere equatorial.  In a burst of inspiration, Sherlock blurted that Victor had been deployed to Iraq.  When everyone stared at him in stunned silence, he said, “Obviously it’s not something I want to talk about.  It distresses me too much.  Can we please get back to the murder at hand?” 

After that, much to Sherlock’s delight, people left him alone.  It was blissful.  No more crude propositions.  No more unpleasantness when he was trying to work.  Even Anderson and Donovan didn’t try to wind him up now that they thought he had a husband at war.  He was able to concentrate on The Work without any distractions.

*

John liked Mike Stamford.  He really did.  Mike was a sweet man, a teddy bear in the truest sense.  Back in uni, he was the one that people went to when they needed a hug.  The fact that John had run into him at the absolute lowest point in his life seemed like some sort of strange cosmic irony.  Because he needed a hug more than anything, and yet they were adults now.  A hug was the last thing he was going to get as they sat on a bench in the park drinking coffee. 

Mike was quizzing him about his living situation, because that was such a Mike thing to do.  John flippantly asked, “Who would have me for a flatmate?”

Mike chuckled.  “Funny you should say that.  There’s a guy I know, Sherlock Holmes.  Earlier he was grumbling about how his landlady wants to rent out the room on the top floor.  The room is technically part of Sherlock’s flat, so whoever lived there would be sharing his living space.  He’s not too keen to have a stranger underfoot, but then he’s not keen to piss off his landlady.  The thing is, I think he wouldn’t mind you.  You already have a couple things in common.  His husband is deployed in Iraq right now.”

John’s interest piqued.  Someone who was both gay and connected to the military.  Those were not insignificant things to have in common.  “But what if having me around would be a painful reminder of the fact that his husband isn’t home?”

Mike shrugged.  “Sherlock seems to take it pretty well.  He’s one of those types that compartmentalizes.  His work is very important to him, practically consumes him.  I think he’d appreciate that you’re the kind that keeps to yourself.”

John nodded absently as he thought it over.  “Ta.”

Mike stood up.  “I have an idea.  Why don’t we swing round to St. Bart’s and I’ll casually introduce you?  See what happens?”

John shrugged and then struggled to his feet, gripping his cane firmly.  “Yeah, alright.”

*

What happened was that mere hours later, John found himself a new living situation.  He also found himself with an inappropriate crush on his new flatmate.

Sherlock was stunning.  A fucking Adonis.  And completely brilliant.  Those mesmerizing eyes had taken in John with one glance, and then proceeded to deduce his life story.  After that, he deduced Mike’s ulterior motive for introducing him to John.  The next thing John knew, he was being swept along to Baker Street to see the flat. 

As John meandered around the sitting room, his gaze had caught on the photographs of Sherlock and his husband.  Christ, but Victor was gorgeous, too.  Well, he would have to be.  Someone like Sherlock could hand pick his choice of mate.  Given his apparent preference for the finer things in life (a Belstaff, for fuck’s sake), only the best would do.

The thing that John couldn’t figure is how Victor could bring himself to be apart from Sherlock for even one hour, much less a whole tour of duty.  John would have thought twice about signing up for war if it meant being with this bloody amazing man.

Sherlock got a call, so John went back to contemplating the picture of Sherlock and Victor giggling over something or another.  Minutes later, to his utter surprise, Sherlock was dragging him out the door to go to a crime scene, citing his expertise as a doctor familiar with traumatic injuries.  Well…dragging might not be the correct word to use.  That would have implied reluctance.  More like, John would have overtaken him as they left the building, if it weren’t for John’s cane.

*

Sherlock had made a huge, colossal mistake.  This was the most despondent he had ever felt in his life, and it was made infinitely worse by the fact that Mycroft was _right_.  The knowledge of that burned in Sherlock’s heart, along with his unrequited feelings.  _Feelings_. For John!  Feelings he couldn’t act upon because otherwise John would be utterly appalled that Sherlock would treat his dear, absent, _completely fictitious_ husband with such callous disregard.  The irony was that John’s moral compass was actually one of the things that… _urgh_...endeared him to Sherlock.

It was entirely Mike Stamford’s fault. He brought John to St. Bart’s.  Within a minute of John stepping into the lab, Sherlock knew something was markedly different about him.  For one thing, John hadn’t flirted with Sherlock at all.  He’d looked at Sherlock with an expression which Sherlock could tell was sexual interest, but John did a phenomenal job of making it _seem_ like he didn’t actually want to bend Sherlock over the nearest table and fuck him senseless.

It was that deduction alone which poleaxed Sherlock.  The fact that John, like many others, wanted to fuck him senseless, but he was doing everything in his power to hide it so Sherlock wasn’t uncomfortable.  Such honorable behavior was so unexpected that Sherlock was less than composed when he blurted out, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

It was only later that Sherlock realized that the reason why John attempted to hide his sexual interest was because Mike had told him he was married.  It took even longer for him to understand why he invited John to live with him.  Weeks, in fact.  It made sense that he’d be slow on the uptake.  He’d never experienced attraction before.  Not at this level.  It didn’t even feel sexual at first.  The attraction was more…visceral.  Like John had some sort of magnetic properties.  The more Sherlock deduced John, the more he was drawn to him. 

The sexual urges came later, after the continuous proximity.  The intimacy of sharing a flat.  The near constant small touches that were entirely casual, but Sherlock couldn’t ignore.  If Lestrade touched his arm to get his attention, Sherlock felt nothing.  When John did the same thing, Sherlock felt a spark of electricity travel up his arm.

If Mycroft found out, he’d smirk in that insufferable way of his and say that he did warn Sherlock.  As it turned out, demisexual was a term that exactly fit Sherlock.

Now that Sherlock had admitted to himself that Mycroft was right, he could also admit to himself that he’d wanted this more than anything.  He’d wanted to feel attraction to someone, wanted romance.  But he’d locked the desire away in his mind palace, because he didn’t think it could ever happen.  Now he saw that it could indeed happen.  He desired John.  John desired him.  It was obvious, no matter how hard John tried to hide it.  But Sherlock had ruined it with his clever little lie.  One that he couldn’t admit to now without losing the very thing he was hoping to gain by telling the truth.  It was a no-win scenario.  Like the test in that space movie that John made him watch the other night.  And he couldn’t figure out how to ‘hack the program’ to beat it.

If Sherlock admitted that this was all an elaborate lie, John would be very hurt and probably think Sherlock was a nutter.  He would also likely be furious that Sherlock used a fictitious soldier at war as a way to gain sympathy.  Not that Sherlock cared about sympathy, he’d only used it as a reason for Victor’s continued absence.  The fact that people treated him with kid gloves was only a happy byproduct.  John wouldn’t see it that way. 

One idea that Sherlock thought of and immediately dismissed was to pretend that poor Victor was killed in action.  After a suitable mourning period, Sherlock could then make his move.  But logistically speaking, there were too many details that would have to be faked or glossed over, and John would eventually get suspicious.  Also, Sherlock supposed it was morally a bit not good.  Years ago he wouldn’t have cared, but he found himself wanting to be a better man for John. 

There was nothing for it.  Sherlock would have to go on pretending he was married, telling lies on a regular basis, and trying to ignore the skin-prickling heat that he felt whenever John sat a little too close on the sofa while they watched crap telly.  It was hateful.

*

John was absolutely disgusted with himself.  He used to think he was an honorable person, able to shut down any attraction he felt to married people.  It didn’t help that he was always around Sherlock, and they shared the intimacy of a flat.  Victor seemed almost a non-entity, since they’d never met and Sherlock never liked to talk about him – probably too painful.  Then there was the fact that Sherlock was the most amazing and beautiful man that he’d ever met in his life.  So yeah, it was a bit understandable that he was having a hard time squashing these feelings.  And he consoled himself with the fact that thus far he’d been able to control himself from making a move on Sherlock.  But he still felt like a worm. 

He may have succeeded in keeping his hands to himself, except for the occasional perfectly normal touches that were totally casual and not at all bordering on a caress.  He was having much less success controlling his fantasies.  He gave up after the first month of trying not to think about Sherlock when he wanked.  Which of course mean that now every orgasm was accompanied by deep shame. 

He was also constantly dreaming about Sherlock.  Not just sex dreams.  No, that would be almost preferable.  The dreams were about them being together, romantically.  He was Sherlock’s husband, not Victor.  He’d take him out on dates, tell him how delectable he looked in his purple shirt, give him little gifts he’d appreciate like books on bees or a new bunsen burner.  Sherlock’s face would turn an adorable shade of pink whenever John did mundane things for him like buy his favourite biscuits or cook him his favourite dinner.  These are things he can do under the guise of typical flatmate behavior.  He wanted to do _more_.  So much more. 

The worst part is that he can tell Sherlock is attracted to him, too.  It’s not just the little blushes when John tells him he’s brilliant at a crime scene, or when he makes him tea without asking.  No, it’s the charged glances whenever John touches him.  Sherlock must surely be touch starved with his husband being gone for so long, and John being conveniently right there.  John is unable to keep from deducing that if he _did_ make a move on Sherlock, his advances might not be unwelcome.  It was these thoughts that made him loathe himself the most. That he would even for one moment entertain the idea of taking advantage of a vulnerable, lonely military spouse.  John had heard stories when he was in Afghanistan.  Other soldiers who found out their significant others back home had cheated on them.  John had seen the resulting anguish and felt disgust over these people who would betray the trust of someone putting their life in danger every day.  And now here he was on the other side of that equation. 

There was an easy solution to this near constant state of attraction and self-loathing.  He could just move out.  Find another bed-sit.  It would be sterile and lonely, but at least he’d have a shred of dignity.  But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.  He could no more leave Sherlock’s orbit than a moth could fly away from the light.

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was staring narrow-eyed at the television screen.  They were watching Star Trek Into Darkness and Sherlock had already predicted half the plot of the movie and declared it tedious.  Yet he was still watching it.  John thought he might have a thing for Kirk.  Which made sense as John had a bit of a thing for Spock.  John couldn’t help but think that he and Sherlock were the perfect team, much like Kirk and Spock.  If it weren’t for his stupid feelings, it could be an epic friendship. 

John swallowed a sigh and reached for some popcorn.  Sherlock reached at the same time and their fingers brushed.  Sherlock’s lips tightened.  John covered the tremor in his hand by playfully yanking the bowl out of reach.  Sherlock scowled at him, but melted into a smile when he saw John’s teasing expression.  John put the bowl back between them, and made sure that their fingers didn’t touch again. 

*

One day while John was at the clinic, Sherlock felt restless and found himself downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, stuffing mince pies in his mouth while she poured tea.  Other than Mycroft, she was the only one who knew the truth about Sherlock’s true marital status.  Unlike Mycroft (he hoped), she was the only one who knew of Sherlock’s feelings for John.  Through a mouthful of mincemeat, he blurted, “He’s thinking about leaving, Mrs. Hudson.”

She blinked at him in surprise.  “John?”

“No, the skull on my mantle.  Of course John!”

She pursed her lips and stirred her tea.  “What makes you think that, dear?”

“I saw on his laptop he was researching bed-sits near the clinic.  I know it’s because he’s appalled at my behavior.  He can tell I want him, that I’m practically gagging for it.  Probably thinks I’m one of those lonely war wives who cheat because they have no self-control.  He wants no part of it, of course.  He’s too…too _honorable_.”  Sherlock glowered into his teacup.

Mrs. Hudson patted his hand.  “He is a good man, our Doctor Watson.  Seeing it from his point of view, you can’t blame him.  The only thing for it is to tell him the truth or let him move on.  Personally, I think you should tell him the truth.  If he’s going to leave anyway, at least there’d no longer be any lies between you.”

Sherlock stared miserably out the window, at the rain pattering against the glass.  “You’re right, Mrs. Hudson.  I’ll tell him.  But _only_ if he announces that he’s leaving.  I don’t think I have it in me to drive him away unless he’s already planning to go.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed and squeezed his hand.

*

John felt a bit overwhelmed and more than a bit out of his element in this trendy nightclub.  The place was huge, so Sherlock had insisted that a team of five spread throughout the club to try and spot the suspect.  If anyone sees him, they were to text the others immediately.  Sherlock was at the farthest end, where he thought the killer most likely to hang out near the dancing cages.  Then it was Lestrade, Dimmock, Sally, and finally John on the other end. 

John was positioned at a small table, taking judicious sips of his whiskey as he scanned his area.  Every so often he’d make his way over to the bar and order another and then head back.  On his third trip to the bar, John caught sight of Sally frowning in puzzlement at something.  He looked over, and his eyes widened when he saw someone who looked a hell of a lot like Sherlock’s husband.  The guy was currently dancing and practically making out with a leggy blonde woman. 

John made his way over to Sally.  She raised her eyebrows when she saw him.  “Spitting image, innit?”

John shrugged.  “Hard to say, I’ve only ever seen him in pictures.  But yeah, may as well be his twin.”

Sally smirked.  “Well you know what Sherlock always says,” she dipped her voice low in imitation and scowled darkly, “It’s never twins.”

John chuckled.  “Well, it’s not like it’s _actually_ Victor.”

Sally wrinkled her nose.  “I guess.”  John shook his head and continued his original journey to the bar. 

The song that was playing finished.  The Victor lookalike whispered to the girl, who nodded and made her way over to the tables, while he turned and headed towards the bar.  He and John both arrived at the same time.  John wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he slotted himself next to the man as he ordered and then quietly asked, “Victor?”

The man turned to him and gave him a questioning look.  “Do I know you?”

John felt something cold unfurl inside him.  “Victor Trevor?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up, and he gave John a sultry smile.  “Please don’t tell me that we’ve met before.  I surely wouldn’t have forgotten someone like you.”

The coldness melted into the prickling heat of anger.  John’s jaw clenched as he ground out, “Does Sherlock know you aren’t in Iraq?”

Victor barked out a laugh. “Sherlock Holmes?  You know him? Why would he think I’m in Iraq?”

There was no question now that it was him, though his words made no sense.

Sally appeared next to them.  “Oh my god, it’s really you!  You’re Sherlock’s husband.  Back from the war!  He didn’t say you’d be here helping us.”

Victor looked gobsmacked.  John shook his head. “No, Sherlock would have told me.  As far as he knows, you’re off fighting in a war zone.  He has no idea you’re here, and you had no idea he’d be here.  Of course you wouldn’t, this isn’t the type of place Sherlock would hang out.  You thought you could have your little tryst with that girl and he’d never find out.”

Victor sputtered at them.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Sally’s jaw dropped.  “Are you one of those men that leads double lives?”

John felt his face turn brick red with fury.  “He’s just like Mr. Chatterjee.  The one who was chatting up Mrs. Hudson while he had two wives in two different countries.” 

How _dare_ he?  Sherlock was the most fantastic person John had ever known, how could anyone be capable of hurting him?  In a haze of anger, John grabbed the lapels of Victor’s jacket and yanked him close until their faces were inches apart.  “Are you even a soldier?  Or did you lie to Sherlock about that, too?”

Victor looked panicked.  He started babbling, “I don’t know what the _fuck_ you two are on about.  I’m not married to Sherlock!  I haven’t seen him since Uni!  I’ve been in America, not Iraq!”  He looked beseechingly at Sally.  “We don’t even keep in touch.  The last time we talked was when he wanted those pictures, and that was a couple years ago.  I don’t know what the hell Sherlock has told you, but we are not now and never have been a couple.”

John felt like he was in some mirror universe as he let go of the other man.  Why would Victor say such lies when all John had to do was bring Sherlock over from the other side of the club and call him on it?  Sally seemed to read his mind, because she took out her mobile.  “I’m texting Sherlock.  We need to clear this up, because either you’re lying or he is.”  She sent off the text and then looked up at Victor, her eyes widening in wonder.  “What if Sherlock is the one lying?  That would be bloody fantastic.  It would prove once and for all that he’s a psychopath.  Remember I warned you against him, John?  Except I thought he’d end up murdering someone.  I suppose we should be relieved that’s he just having a delusional episode where he believes he’s married to his old crush.  He must have had it bad for you, Victor.”

“SHUT UP!!!!” John bellowed. “You don’t know _anything_ about the situation, so just shut your mouth!  Victor’s the one lying.  He has to be.  Sherlock would never…” John’s voice faltered when he saw Sherlock make his way through the crowd.  The look of horror on his face when he saw Victor, followed by one of guilt when his eyes shifted to John.  John felt the blood rushing to his head as he realized the truth. 

Unable to face whatever Sherlock had to say when he reached them, John turned and headed for the nearest exit, which he’d scouted out earlier.  As he flung open the door, he was dowsed in the cold night air, a sharp contrast to the heat of the club.  He stumbled over to the street where there were plenty of taxis hoping to catch a drunk patron needing a ride home.  He flagged one down and gave the driver his sister’s address.  He pulled his buzzing mobile out of his pocket and turned it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make it clear that just because Sherlock starts out thinking he was ace, and was wrong, doesn’t mean I believe ace folk just “haven’t found the right person.” This is an unusual circumstance because Sherlock is the type of person that having an emotional connection would be a very rare thing for him.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been bad enough that Mycroft was right.  Now Mrs. Hudson was the one with the right to say, “I told you so.”  The fact that she never would, because she was too kind, made it even worse.  If only Sherlock had told John the truth before that disastrous night at the club.  There might have been the tiniest chance that John would understand and they could live happily ever after.  But since Sherlock didn’t get to tell him on his own terms, John would never know why he lied.  Not unless he came back, and that wasn’t happening.  One day Sherlock came back from doing some research for a client, and Mrs. Hudson told him with sympathy in her eyes that John’s sister had been by to get his stuff. 

A week after the incident Sherlock was curled up in his chair, having spent the entire day sulking in his pajamas, when he got a cryptic text from his brother. **You can thank me later – MH.**   As he was tossing his mobile on the table in disgust, he heard the familiar creak on the stairs.  Sherlock bolted up from the chair.

John stepped into the room, his expression obstinate.  “Your bloody brother kidnapped me from the clinic and said that if I didn’t listen to your side of the story, he was going to make sure that my life becomes very unpleasant.  Then he dropped me off here.  So say what you have to say because I need to get back to my job if I’m going to afford another bed-sit.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, as he’d been holding it, and lifted his chin in defiance.  “For the record, I didn’t put Mycroft up to this.”

John rolled his eyes.  “I know that, you git.  You wouldn’t ask him for a favour if you were stranded naked in Aberdeen.” 

Sherlock blinked and fought back a smile. It as almost as if John was teasing him like old times.  He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m genuinely sorry I involved you in this whole charade.  It was the reason I didn’t want a flatmate in the first place.  Because I’d have had to lie to them constantly, or tell them the truth and then they’d have to lie on my behalf.  It wasn’t a problem for Mrs. Hudson, she’s an old pro at keeping secrets.”

John glared.  “Mrs. Hudson knew the truth?  Who else?  Who _else_ knew you weren’t really married?”

“Well, obviously my family.  And some of my homeless network. That’s _all_.”

John gusted out a sigh.  He went into the kitchen.  “I’m going to need some tea for this.”  He put the kettle on.  As he went about setting up the tray, Sherlock paced the living room, gathering his thoughts.

John finally sat down in his chair with the tea set.  “Begin at the beginning.  I want to know how this all started.”

Sherlock told him all about the unwelcome attention since puberty, his rudeness to get people to back off, the detriment to his work, Mycroft’s encounter with the flirting server, and how it all snowballed from there.

When he’d finished, John was gaping at him.  He shook his head.  “I’ve heard of women wearing wedding rings so men wouldn’t prey on them, but this is some next level fuckery.  You never do anything by halves, do you?”  He sighed and rubbed his face.  “Look, I get that you were frustrated.  You’re not exactly the most tolerant of people to begin with.  I can see how all that attention constantly must have driven you up the wall.  The thing is…it’s one thing to create a fake persona for a case, it’s another to lie to people you know and work with.  Don’t give me a bullshit excuse about being a sociopath.  You’re better than this, Sherlock.”  John glared at him, but there was very little heat behind it.  It made Sherlock hopeful. 

Sherlock gave him his most remorseful expression.  “I really am sorry I involved you in my deception.  I should have told you that day at St. Bart’s that I was absolutely _not_ interested in a flatmate, and we would have gone our separate ways.”  His voice cracked as he said it.  Their separate ways?  Never to have seen John again after that day?  What a _horrible_ thought.

John seemed to feel the same because he winced at Sherlock’s words.  “I never would have gotten to be part of your work.  We wouldn’t have become friends.  I’d still be at that bed-sit.  Or worse…”  He set his teacup down with a clatter, his expression dark, disturbed.  “No, I can’t regret living here.  It saved my life.  It made me happier than I’ve ever been.  Well, except for all the guilt I carried around for lusting after a married man.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks grow hot, both at John’s admission that he desired him, and that his lies had made him feel bad.  “I’m sorry.  I really am.”

John sighed and rubbed his face in his hands.  “No, no, no.  You are in no way responsible for someone’s attraction to you, or their mixed feelings about it.”

Sherlock spread his hands.  “But if I hadn’t lied, you wouldn’t be feeling that guilt.”

John drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.  “I’m not so sure.  If you hadn’t been pretending to be married, I probably would have flirted with you when we first met.  You would have rejected me like all the others, yeah?”

Sherlock tented his fingers as he contemplated.  “Agreed, I didn’t know you well enough yet.  I might not have been as rude to you about it.  Maybe I would have said I was married to my work.”  He gave him a rueful smile.

John nodded.  “See, and I would have respected that and never hit on you again.  And I would have felt guilty about lusting after my not-interested flatmate.”

Sherlock’s cheeks reddened again.  “Maybe so, but without the lie between us, I might have said something once I realized my own attraction to you.”

Something sparked in John’s eyes.  “So you _are_ attracted to me.  Not asexual?”

Sherlock slowly shook his head.  “Definitely demisexual.  And demiromantic.  I just never felt an emotional connection to someone.  Until now,” he whispered.

John blinked several times.  “Right, then.”  He stood up and squared his shoulders.  Sherlock was seized with the horrible thought that John was about to leave, now that he knows everything.  Instead, John held out his hand.  “Come on.  Up you go.”  Sherlock put his hand in John’s, and was pulled to his feet.  “Now that we have the benefit of hindsight, it’s time to start over.  Go over to your microscope.  Look into it just like you were doing that day in St. Bart’s when we met.”

Sherlock gave an incredulous laugh, but when John gave him a firm look, he did as he was told.  He perched on the stool at the kitchen table and peered into the microscope.  Obviously he couldn’t see anything, because it wasn’t turned on.  He almost jumped when John’s voice sounded very close to him.  “Bit different from my day.”

Sherlock looked up.  John raised his eyebrows.  Sherlock blinked.  “Um…Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John leaned against the table, his arms folded in a way that emphasized his forearms, and gave Sherlock a smile that was just shy of sultry.  “Afghanistan.  How’d you know?”

Sherlock swallowed.  He remembered the moment so clearly when he’d explained his deductions to John.  It had been in the cab, and he’d been certain John would tell the cabbie to let him off at the curb.  “I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut and bearing say military. Your conversation with Mike meant trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists, so you’ve been abroad for work. You have a limp when you walk but don’t ask for a chair when you stand.  Must be partly psychosomatic, indicating traumatic injury.  You’re military, so balance of probability is you were wounded in action, and the suntan narrows that down to Afghanistan or Iraq.”  He exhaled slowly. 

John’s smile widened.  “That was…amazing.”  There was a glow in his eyes which made Sherlock shiver.  Not like in the cab, when John had kept his expression carefully neutral even as he’d been praising him. 

Sherlock cleared his throat, but his words still came out roughly.  “That’s not what people usually say.”

John licked his lips.  “Yeah?”  His eyes flicked up and down Sherlock’s body.  “I can only imagine what they usually say.”

The air left Sherlock’s lungs.  Of course that isn’t what John said the first time.  This time he was flirting unabashedly.  Telegraphing his sexual interest very clearly.  It was amazing how there had been countless times in his life when others had done this very same thing, and it had left him completely cold.  But for John to be doing it, Sherlock felt like every hair on his body vibrated, leaving prickling sensations across his skin.  “John,” he breathed.  John’s eyebrows went up in question.  “I don’t know what to do.  I’m not practiced in flirting.”

John’s smile was tender as he stepped closer.  “It’s okay, Sherlock.  Now that we’ve been introduced, we can move on to dating.”

Sherlock looked at him wide-eyed as john reached over and lightly traced over one of his fingers that was glued to the microscope.  “Dating?”

“As in, I’m going to ask you out on a date.  Unless you’re seeing someone?”  John’s expression was teasing.

“No,” Sherlock said quickly.

John grinned, and nodded his head.  “Right. Okay. You’re unattached like me.  Good.”  He cleared his throat.  “Dinner?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh.  He remembered asking John that after he shot the cabbie.  “ _Starving_.”

John looked him up and down again.  “Yeah, me too.”

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself.  “I know a place that serves delicious wanton…I mean wontons.”

John nodded, his eyes gleaming.  “Do they deliver?  I don’t fancy leaving the flat.” 

Sherlock swallowed.  “Yes.  And they’re open late.  In case we want to wait till later to place our order.”

John raised one eyebrow.  “Not starving after all?”

Sherlock lifted his chin.  He felt completely out of his depth, but he was going to give it a shot.  “I am, but not for food.”  He gave John what he hoped was a sultry look, feeling ridiculous.

John’s eyes lit up, clearly enjoying Sherlock’s attempt at flirting.  But then his gaze sharpened and Sherlock felt the prickliness all over again.  He took one last step, now fully in Sherlock’s personal space.  “There now, we’ve covered the basics of flirting.  Now for the first kiss.  Yes?”

Sherlock nodded jerkily.  John reached out and began to fiddle with the lapel of his dressing gown.  Sherlock realized belatedly that he was disheveled from having lounged about the flat all day, hardly kiss-worthy material.  He self-consciously ran his fingers through his hair.

John gave him a soft smile.  “You look gorgeous.”

Sherlock scowled.  “No I don’t, I’m a mess.”

John chuckled and trailed his fingers up to Sherlock’s shoulder, massaging it slightly.  “All those people who have come on to you and you still don’t know just how appealing you are.  Let me put it this way:  as long as we’ve been living together, I’ve seen you like this countless times.  I confess I find it even more appealing than when you’re all dressed up to go out, with your bespoke suits and no curl out of place.”

Sherlock huffed, finding it hard to concentrate when John’s other hand started to do the same thing to his other shoulder.  It sent goosebumps up his arms.  “That doesn’t make sense, John.”

John giggled and shook his head.  “It makes perfect sense.  While I admit seeing you in that purple shirt with your buttons straining does things to me…this right here is something special.  This is the Sherlock that no one else sees.  With your dressing gown and tatty t-shirt and curls in complete riot.  This look says you feel comfortable with me.  It says domesticity.  It says a life lived together.”  His voice hitched a little and he looked up at Sherlock, affection shining in his eyes.  “I don’t know how many times I’ve sat with you on the sofa, with you looking like this, watching crap telly, feeling so at home.  The only thing that didn’t feel right was saying goodnight to you and going up those stairs.”  His grip on Sherlock’s shoulders tightened.

Sherlock reached up, placing his hands over John’s.  “That was the worst part for me, too.  The first time it happened, I felt this twinge of disappointment that I didn’t understand.  Every time after that, it got worse and worse, until I realized that I wanted you to be going to _my_ bedroom, to stay there and never leave.”  He lifted John’s hands away from his shoulders and placed them on either side of his face, closing his eyes briefly at the feel of John’s warm hands cupping his cheeks.  “Kiss me, John.  Kiss me and then take me to bed.  Please don’t tell me it’s too soon.”

John smiled at him tenderly and stroked a finger along Sherlock’s cheekbone.  “If you feel you are ready for this big of a step, then of course it isn’t too soon, love.  I’m just happy that it’s not too late.”  He gently tugged Sherlock’s head down.  When their lips met, Sherlock understood what John meant about feeling at home.  Nothing felt more right than for John’s soft lips to be sliding against his.  Sherlock dropped his hands to John’s hips, not sure what to do with them, curling his fingers through the belt loops of his jeans. 

John tangled one of his hands in Sherlock’s hair while his other arm curled around his neck, pulling him down further, pressing their bodies tighter.  Sherlock moaned involuntarily, stiffening a little in embarrassment at his reaction.  John chuckled against his lips and pulled back to gaze up at Sherlock.  “Don’t be afraid to let me know you like something, love.  You’re pretty vocal about telling me when I annoy you, don’t clam up now that I’m making you feel good.”

Sherlock flushed as John captured his lips again, and shivered when he felt John’s teeth slightly nibble against his lower lip, his tongue following.  Sherlock opened his lips, and the sensation of John’s tongue entering his mouth made him moan again.  He felt instantly foolish over all the times he made a face at seeing other people do this sort of kissing.  It was delightful.

Sherlock realized he wanted to touch John everywhere, and there was no reason now not to.  He overcame some of his shyness and moved his hands up from John’s hips to skim his torso and then his back.  Sherlock then experimented with sliding his tongue over John’s, the feeling almost unbearably sensuous.  John was the one to moan this time.  Emboldened, Sherlock did something he’d been longing to do for ages – he slid his hands down to John’s arse and squeezed.  John chuckled.  “Mmm, I like the way you’re thinking, love.  Take what you want.”

The way John kept calling him ‘love’ enflamed him.  “John,” he growled. “I believe I said that I wanted you to take me to bed.”

Sherlock should have been frustrated when John started giggling, but the truth was that he loved it when John did that.  Despite himself, he started laughing in response.  “ _John_!” he groaned.

John giggled harder, but started pulling him back towards the bedroom.  “You exquisite man, of course I’m going to take you to bed.  I look forward to all the things I want to do in that bed with you, all the things I’ve been daydreaming about.” 

Sherlock shivered.  “Like what?”  They were inside the bedroom now, and John closed the door. 

He slipped Sherlock’s dressing gown off his shoulders, and began to skim his hands underneath the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt.  “First I’m going to worship that body of yours in exactly the way it deserves.  Then I’ll order dinner and we’ll eat it in bed because I’m not inclined for you to wear clothes for the rest of the night.  The food will give us enough energy for more, and once we’ve exhausted ourselves I’m going to gather you to me and fall asleep with you in my arms.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling.  “I like that.  What about in the morning?  Can we have sex again when we wake up?”  It was one of his fantasies.

John pulled Sherlock’s t-shirt off and began raining kisses down his sternum.  “Absofuckinglutely.  Then I’ll make you breakfast, a proper fry up.  Maybe we can go for a walk in Regent Park like we usually do, except this time we’ll hold hands.  Sound good?”

Sherlock gusted out a sigh that felt a little like bliss.  “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, John.  I figured you just wanted me to blow you.” 

John giggled again as he ran his fingertips over Sherlock’s ribs, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “Oh, I would love to have those lips around my cock, but only if that’s what you want.  I’d be more than happy to spend some time lavishing attention on yours.”  As he said this, his fingers slid down to the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and tugged a little.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whimpered.  As much as he was aroused, he was also full of nerves.  He’d never cared about the semantics of sex acts before, unless it was for a case.  The thought that he was about to engage in some was a bit overwhelming.  He forced himself to focus and follow his instincts, which were telling him to get John naked as quickly as possible. 

He started by pulling John’s jumper over his head.  This was Sherlock’s first time seeing him shirtless.  He deduced awhile back that John kept himself covered because of his shoulder injury.  His upper body was lean, compact, his skin still sun-kissed after all these months back in London.  The scar was puckered and pink.  Sherlock wanted to touch it, but wasn’t sure John would like that.  “It’s okay, love.  You can touch me anywhere you like.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted back up to John, seeing his amused expression.  “That transparent, was I?”

“Like a window, Sherlock.  I knew the scar would fascinate you.  I only ask that you save any deductions about it for later.  I’d like to stay aroused for now.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the front of John’s jeans.  He was indeed aroused.  Suddenly, touching the scar took a back seat to something more important.  Sherlock tentatively cupped the bulge in his jeans.  John closed his eyes and let out a gust of air.  Sherlock wanted to kiss him again, so he curled his other hand around the back of John’s neck and lowered his head, licking the seam of John’s lips until he opened them.  Yes indeed, open mouth kissing was fantastic.  Sherlock should have realized he would love it, given his oral fixation.  He sucked on John’s tongue as he continued to lightly massage his erection. 

With fumbling fingers, John unbuttoned his jeans and directed Sherlock’s hand inside so that the only barrier now was his cotton pants.  They both moaned at the contact.  He’d thought of John’s cock many times in recent months.  It was a new experience for him to think about cocks, he barely noticed his own - though that _too_ changed upon realizing his attraction to John.  He started paying much more attention to his cock as he thought of John’s.  And now here it was in his hand, his fingers automatically exploring the length of it through the thin cotton material.  It wasn’t enough to feel, though, he wanted to see. 

Sherlock broke the kiss and dropped to his knees.  Looking up at John’s wrecked face, Sherlock tugged his jeans down until they were around his ankles.  Sherlock ran his hands up John’s legs, reveling in his powerful calves and the delightful muscles of his thighs, likely developed from years of playing rugby.  Sherlock couldn’t resist detouring his hands to John’s backside for a brief but reverent squeeze of his glutes, before continuing up to curl his fingers around the waistband of his underwear.  Sherlock looked up at John’s face again.  He looked like he could hardly believe what was about to happen.  Sherlock echoed the sentiment. 

Sherlock peeled the waistband over and down John’s erection, freeing it.  He reached out and took it into his hand, wrapping his fingers around it.  He barely heard John’s whispered, “Fuck” as he stroked his hand up and down it.  It was nothing like gripping his own cock.  It felt like he was holding something precious.  He leaned forward to kiss it, inhaling John’s scent.  Encouraged by the hitching of John’s breath, and the fingers which were now curled into his hair, Sherlock licked upward from the base to the tip.  John’s cock tasted like it smelled, musky and slightly salty.  Sherlock let the tip of his tongue press against the underside of the head, and was rewarded with the sensation of John shuddering against him.  Remembering John’s comment about his lips around his cock, he did just that – wrapped his lips around the head, enjoying the groaning and swearing coming from above.  He sucked lightly, swirling his tongue a few times, then pulled off.  He didn’t want to actually blow John at this time, knowing he’d get too caught up in whether or not he was doing it right.  The last thing he wanted was for his nerves to return.  He stood up and cupped his hands around John’s face.  “Bed now, please.”

John moved his head slightly to bestow a quick kiss on Sherlock’s palm, then toed off his shoes so he could get his jeans and underwear all the way off.  He sat down on the bed and reclined back onto the pillow, tucking his forearm behind his head.  He gazed at Sherlock with a smile that was positively filthy, and winked.  “Come join me, love.  But only after you’ve gotten rid of those,” he said, indicating Sherlock’s pajamas. 

Sherlock felt a momentary bout of shyness that John was about to see him completely naked.  But it was quickly outweighed by the desire to press his bare skin against John’s.  He gingerly divested his pajama bottoms, blushing a little at John’s delighted smile when he saw that Sherlock wasn’t wearing pants underneath. 

John crooked his finger at Sherlock, making him flush even hotter as he crawled onto the bed and sank down into John’s outstretched arms.  The feeling of their skin touching was indescribable.  Sherlock’s breath left him at the sensation.  “Oh John,” he croaked, as he buried his nose in John’s neck.  “This is really happening.”

John ran his fingers up and down Sherlock’s arm, peppering kisses into his tousled curls.  “It really is, and I couldn’t be happier to finally have you like this.”

Sherlock lifted his head and gazed into John’s eyes.  “Tell me more.  What else did you imagine us doing?”

John reached up to trace Sherlock’s lips.  “Mmm, well…  Whenever we watched movies together, I wanted to have you resting in my arms, so I could sneak kisses and occasionally reach down to fondle your arse.  I also wanted to make you hot cocoa to go along with the popcorn, so you could enjoy a mix of salty and sweet.”

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise.  “How did you know I like hot cocoa?”

John chuckled.  “It’s not hard to deduce, love.  Whenever we’re in the coffee and tea aisle at Tesco, you keep glancing at the cocoa mixes.  I’m guessing you think you’re too old to indulge in such things, but I want so much to indulge you.”  He pressed his lips to Sherlock in a tender kiss.  “What about you?  What have you wished for with us?”  He carded his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock bit his lip, feeling shy again.  “You know all those pictures of Victor and I that were around the flat?  I wanted it to be pictures of you and I, instead.”  He glanced at John through his lashes, hoping he wouldn’t think him too sentimental.

John looked very pleased at Sherlock’s admission.  He pulled out of Sherlock’s arms and reached down for his jeans, sliding his mobile out of the back pocket.  He enabled the camera feature and lifted the mobile into the air, framing them both from the waist up.  “Here we are.  Smile for me, love.”  Sherlock smiled at John’s affectionate tone, but at the last moment he looked away, tucking his face halfway into John’s neck as the mobile made the shutter click sound.  John chuckled.  “Perfect.” 

Sherlock looked up at the mobile and groaned at seeing his face in profile, looking both shy and ridiculously pleased.  But John’s gaze in the picture was so fond that Sherlock didn’t demand he delete it.  “I look forward to making your picture my lock screen so I can show it off.   _Not_ that one, though.  That one’s for my eyes only.”  He took the mobile out of John’s hands and placed it on the bedside table, then grabbed John’s shoulders and tugged until John assented to be pulled on top of him.  “John,” he breathed, “much as I love the kissing, I want more.  What’s next?”

With a devilish grin, John shifted on top of him until their cocks were aligned, then he ground his hips down.  Sherlock almost yelped at the sensation of their erections sliding against each other.  “Ohhh, John.  What you just did there.  That was, um…good.  Keep doing that.”  He took a shuddering breath as John did it again.

John chuckled wickedly in his ear, causing the hair on his neck to stand up.  “You know what would make it feel even better?  Lube.  Please tell me you have some, Sherlock.  I don’t want to have to stop this to go upstairs.”  He nibbled on Sherlock’s earlobe, making him keen a little.

“I…I do.  Yes.  Just…there.”  He pointed a flailing hand at the bedside table.

John shifted so that his knees were on either side of Sherlock’s hips, and he sat up, reaching over and opening the drawer to fetch the lube.  “Good boy.  I deduced that you might have gotten some, given your recent sexual awakening.  Have you been wanking to thoughts of me?”

Sherlock took in the view of John straddling his hips, their cocks still aligned, his chest heaving.  “Yes,” he breathed, “about this very scenario of you on top of me.”  He ran his hands up and down John’s thighs.

John gave him a sultry smile and squeezed some lube into his palm.  “In this fantasy of yours, am I riding you?”  He leaned over slightly as he reached down and grasped their two cocks together in his hand.

Sherlock let out a gust of air and closed his eyes, the sensation almost unbearably good.  “ _Yes_.  I really want … _oh_ … to be inside you.  But with you still in charge, controlling the….ah!”  He cried out as John began stroking up and down the lengths of their erections. 

He opened his eyes to see that John’s face looked utterly ravaged.  “Christ, Sherlock.  I want that, too. Fuck, that sounds amazing.  But not right now.  We’d have to prepare and….oh _fuck_ …I don’t think either of us are going to last.”  Sherlock was in agreement, he was really, really close. 

John took his unoccupied hand and placed it on Sherlock’s arse and made a tugging motion.  “Thrust, Sherlock.  Fuck into my hand.”

Sherlock moaned and did as he was told, moving his hips in time to John’s.  It felt amazing.  He looped his arm around John’s shoulder and pulled him down for a kiss.  Their breathing was getting erratic, so he mostly just panted against John’s lips. 

Needing something more, he put his other hand around John’s over their cocks.  It was the right thing to do.  The added friction, and the intimacy of their hands clasped together around their cocks made him dizzy with arousal.  He could feel his pleasure building, narrowing his focus on reaching that precipice.  “John, oh god, I’m almost there.”

“Yes, love, let me see you come,” John panted.  He nuzzled Sherlock’s face, his breath hot against Sherlock’s ear.  “I’ve wanted this so much.  To see how beautiful you are.”

This sent Sherlock over the edge.  A couple more thrusts and he was coming into their joined hands.  Sherlock froze as he orgasmed, unable to move as the sensations, more intense than he’d ever experienced by himself, poured over him in wave after wave.  John thrust his hips a few more times, and he was soon coming as well, whispering obscenities in a throaty voice that sent shivers up Sherlock’s spine.  Sherlock stared at him, fascinated by the series of expressions that flitted across John’s face – pleasure that looked almost like pain, relief, and then sheer joy as he opened his eyes and gazed back at Sherlock. 

John rolled off Sherlock, curling up against his side.  He giggled into Sherlock’s shoulder.  As the sound was Sherlock’s favourite thing ever, he began to laugh, too.  He felt tears well in his eyes and then squeeze out by the force of the grin on his face.  “John.  I know you’ll think it’s the hormones, but I haven’t told you yet and I desperately need to.  I love you.  I don’t think I could bear it if you didn’t come back and stay for good.  No one’s ever made me feel this way and I don’t think anyone else ever could.”

John gave him a tender smile and wiped a tear from his cheek.  “You’ll never have to find out, love.  Of course I’ll stay.  I suspect by now Mycroft has already fetched my things and deposited them in the front hall.”

Sherlock grimaced.  “Why did you have to mention his name when I’m in the middle of post-coital bliss?”

John giggled again.  “My apologies.  I will make up for it by telling you that I love you, too.  You are everything I want and need.  Before I met you, I was so alone…” his voice hitched.  “I hate to think that my anger and stubbornness almost kept me from experiencing this.”  He looked down, his lips pressed together.

“Your anger was entirely justified, but I’m glad you forgave me.”  Sherlock gave a heavy sigh and kissed John on the forehead.  “I suppose I really ought to thank my meddlesome brother.  Though I should mention that it was his damn ring that started it all.”

John gave him a reproachful look.  “Sherlock…”  Sherlock rolled his eyes and laughed to acknowledge that he knew he was deflecting. 

“Speaking of rings,” John held up Sherlock’s left hand, “I’m only just now noticing you aren’t wearing it anymore.” 

Sherlock’s mouth turned down.  “When I saw you take off in that cab…and you wouldn’t answer your mobile…I threw it in the dumpster behind the club.  I came home and trashed the pictures, too.  I wanted no more of that lie.  It was a mockery of what I really wanted.”

John reached out to tuck a curl back from Sherlock’s forehead.  “What you really wanted?”

Sherlock sighed and gazed up into his eyes.  “You, John.  Together with me.  No more lies, no more rings.”

John hummed.  “Sounds almost perfect, love.”  He leaned over to kiss Sherlock before he had a chance to ask why he’d said ‘almost.’  He began doing things with his hands that made Sherlock forget to ask altogether.

*

Some months later, Sherlock was at St. Bart’s analyzing some evidence for a case.  He was trying to focus on the sample in the microscope, but having a hard time with the dopey smile on his face - the texts he’d just gotten from John having put it there. 

**I have something for you.  Will bring it with me to St. Bart’s, if convenient.**

**If inconvenient, I’ll bring it anyway.**

Sherlock attempted to concentrate on his task, but his brain was more interested in deducing what John was bringing to him.  John loved showering him with gifts, but usually when they were at home. 

Molly came bustling in.  “Greg brought over another piece of evidence for your analysis.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.  “Greg?”

Molly rolled her eyes.  “ _Lestrade_.”

“Oh!  Right.  You may put it there.” She nodded and set it next to the microscope.  Sherlock looked up.  “I can’t help but notice he brought it to you and not me.  Clearly he’s interested, but still fragile from his divorce.  You’ll need to be the one to ask him out.”

Molly blushed and looked down.  “Why is it that people in a happy relationship are always trying to matchmake?”

Sherlock scowled at her.  “I don’t make matches, I make deductions.  You two would get on very well together.  Same gallows humor, same odd hours.  And I know you’ve been checking out his arse.  It’s indubitable.”  She huffed out a sigh, but she was smirking as she walked out the door.  Sherlock was glad that she’d long ago forgiven him for lying to her.  Gavin as well. 

Ever since he and John started dating, people bothered him less than they did when he’d been wearing the ring.  Sherlock surmised that it was because he and John spent so much time together and John was very obviously possessive.  John said that it was because of the ridiculously happy look on Sherlock’s face that could only come from being well shagged on a regular basis. 

His mobile chimed in his pocket, just as the door to the lab opened again.  This time it was John.  Sherlock suppressed a smile.  “John!  Glad you’re here.  Could you fetch my mobile for me? It’s in my left front pocket.”  Sometimes he made these requests because he was so focused on what he was doing that even the act of reaching for his own mobile would break his concentration.  Other times he did it because he knew John would feel him up.

John smilingly complied with his request, and reached into his pocket, taking an extra long time on his task.  Smirking, Sherlock pretended to be fixated on the microscope as he blindly reached for the mobile in John’s outstretched hand.  His fingers landed on something that had the wrong dimensions to be his mobile.  He looked down and saw that it was a small jewelry box.  Sherlock froze, his eyes widening as he looked up at John. 

John gave him a fond smile.  “I know you’ll accuse me of being sentimental, but I figured this was the best place to do this.  The room where we first met.”  He took Sherlock’s hand in his and pressed the box into it.  Sherlock’s fingers reflexively closed around it.  “Remember when you said that all you wanted was me, together with you?  No lies, no rings?”

Sherlock stared down at the box, his voice a mere breath.  “You said that sounded _almost_ perfect.”

John smiled even wider.  “I knew you caught that.  I was hoping that when you said no rings, you meant rings symbolic of a lie.  I was _hoping_ …” he took a deep breath, “…that you’d be amenable to rings symbolic of a truth.  The truth being that I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.  What do you say to a real marriage, love?  To a real soldier.  An _ex_ -soldier who will never leave your side?”

Feeling momentarily overcome, Sherlock flipped open the box.  It had two rings in it, made of burnished platinum.  Sherlock took a shuddering breath and looked into John’s eyes.  “On one condition.  That we get married here in London, with everyone we know in attendance.  So there’s no question in anyone’s mind that it is real, that our love is true.”

John smiled tenderly.  “Now _that_ sounds perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! If you're interested, my tumblr is sherlock-nanowrimo.tumblr.com


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